Earl of Wainthorpe

by Cameron, Collette

  “Humor me anyway.” Pierce pushed the foolscap across the table, but the baron simply glowered at him.

  As did his cousin.

  “Do it, or the bet is off.” Pierce leaned back and crossed his arms to prevent himself from glancing at her.

  His face contorted into a mutinous scowl, Fairfax seized the paper once more. “If you insist.”

  “I do.”

  Fairfax was not exactly known for his scruples or honesty. If the provision was not in writing, it would be difficult for Pierce to press his claim, and Miss Salisbury must be removed from her cousin’s custody tonight. She wasn’t safe with the blackguard.

  With obvious reluctance, the baron added a couple of lines, and when he finished, held the marker up. “Will that do?”

  Pierce perused the sheet, not at all certain of the legality. Still, he was buying Miss Salisbury a little time, if nothing else. “Yes.”

  “For the love of God, you cannot be serious?” Something more than irritation and chagrin made her words rough around the edges.

  Fright? Dread?

  The notion churned and festered in Pierce’s middle. No woman ever had reason to fear him before. That this intriguing creature he would like to become further acquainted with should be the first, caused an unpleasant stirring to swirl behind his breastbone.

  Fairfax twisted to look at her and had the audacity to wink.

  Her upper lip curled the merest bit.

  “You needn’t kick up a dust or look so affronted, Bianca. ’Tis just a business transaction.” He puffed out his thick chest and jabbed a thumb at his sternum just above a droplet of dried gravy. “I know what I’m doing. You shall see. Soon enough, you’ll be pestering me for funds for fripperies and fallalls.”

  “I have never pestered you, nor would I ever do so for nonsensical accoutrements.” Her body taut and her face wan, but a mask of controlled dignity, she slowly stood. “You shall find, gentlemen, I am not as malleable or witless as you presume if you think I shall willing be a party to this madness.”

  Pierce cleared his throat, the sound drawing the firebrand’s scathing scrutiny.

  “Miss Salisbury, I should like to speak with you after the game is at an end. Where might I find you?”

  “Well, I shan’t be holding court with a bevy of beaux, that’s for certain.” Demonstrating commendable poise, she released a despairing little laugh. After giving Pierce a look that could only be described as profound disappointment—a glance that tunneled straight to his gut and twisted the organs with clawed talons—she quit the room.

  And yes, though it was barely discernable, she favored one side, making her gait slightly uneven.

  Never before had such self-recrimination harangued Pierce. Yet what choice had he?

  Fairfax must be made to pay.

  Guests, their expressions avid, swung their attention between Pierce and Fairfax, almost frothing in their eagerness to see the game’s outcome.

  Hard to tell which man they preferred win. Neither was a society favorite.

  Waving his cards, Fairfax fairly beamed. “Do you really think I’m daft enough to wager Elmswood and Bianca if I wasn’t positive I had you beat, Wainthorpe?”

  He chuckled loudly, but the perspiration beading his upper lip belied his humor and bravado.

  Pierce was not so much of a scoundrel that he would let Miss Salisbury remain with her wretch of a cousin. Fairfax had stepped well beyond propriety’s mark, offering her up like a prized piece of horseflesh. And if he did it once, he would do so again. Only next time, some unscrupulous lout might very well despoil her. Or worse yet, Fairfax might prostitute her.

  Those pointed talons gripped Pierce’s innards harder and gave a vicious twist.

  No. An inconceivable notion.

  He must protect her.

  Except for that guardianship business. That arrangement would never do long-term. He determined long ago to never be responsible for another soul.

  He knew just how to deal with that obstacle. Yes, indeed.

  Pierce would turn his new ward’s care over to the trio.

  Surely one of his endearing, interfering sisters would take on the guardianship or find a respectable position for the girl. Why, among the three they boasted nearly a dozen offspring. Mayhap an energetic niece or nephew needed a governess. Yes, just the thing for a bluestocking, and Miss Salisbury wouldn’t have to fret about her virtue any longer.

  He grazed his hand across his chin, mindful Pembroke and Benton were regarding him with unusual scrutiny.

  Pierce might as well provide her a purse for a new wardrobe too. As his ward, he couldn’t have Miss Salisbury trudging about in gowns as unsightly as that frightening frock she wore tonight. She would look resplendent in deep green—his favorite color—or violet, even saffron. Perhaps a simple necklace and earrings too. Topaz or pearls or emeralds against her ivory skin?

  Did she ride? Like the theater? Perhaps dancing and French lessons were in order as well.

  What if gentleman wanted to call upon her?

  Should Pierce permit it?

  That notion rested in his gut as unpleasantly as tainted oysters.

  Getting way ahead of yourself there, old chap. Enough woolgathering. Tend to the task at hand.

  Pierce poured himself another dram of brandy. He seldom indulged in more than two drinks. That he did so tonight launched the other two members of the Wicked Earls’ Club eyebrows high onto their noble foreheads.

  Curiosity every bit as acute as the guests’ danced in their eyes. But they would respect his privacy just as he respected theirs. At least until they were assembled within the club’s sacred walls.

  By no means could the same be said of Vic. His glower deepened further, but at least he held his tongue. He would save his lecture for when he and Pierce were alone. And given the darkling look he sliced Pierce, a lengthy monologue, chock-full of chastisements, could be expected. Most especially when it came to accepting Fairfax’s cousin as a stake.

  Likely, with the exception of the other wicked earls and Vic, everyone else present—including the stormy-eyed Miss Salisbury—thought Pierce did so because he was an incorrigible, immoral degenerate.

  But he meant to save her from a debased cur. Fairfax.

  “Let’s see your hand then.” Pierce made a pretense of feigning dire interest.

  His smug smile stretched wide, Fairfax splayed his cards. “Trump flush.”

  The onlookers let out an appreciative rumble.

  “Oh, I say. Well done.”

  “Ain’t every day you see that.”

  “Oh, I do believe the baron has won,” a woman trilled.

  Only one combination was better.

  A rare hand, and one Pierce had only seen dealt once before.

  Smiling like a foxed rhesus monkey, Fairfax leaned forward, prepared to scoop the winnings into his sweaty palms.

  Hooking his ankle over his knee and slinging an arm across the back of his chair, Pierce hitched his mouth into an I’ve-got-you-now-you-bloody-sot-grin before flipping over the top card, the ace facing upward atop the ten point.

  “Pam-flush.”

  Fairfax wheezed in alarm.

  Pierce tapped the knave of clubs once with his forefinger. “I win.”

  Bianca tore toward the lady’s retiring room. A cold sweat dribbled down her spine, and her blood careened through her veins. She’d meant to be brave and strong, to stay and witness the outcome. But when Bertram signed over her guardianship to a stranger…

  That betrayal had been too much. Too degrading.

  If only she could have disappeared, not seen the mixture of expressions turned toward her. The pity, calculation, lasciviousness, satisfaction, embarrassment, and more.

  She swallowed, truly fearful she might cast up her accounts. A loud buzzing in her ears and her knees gone to jelly proved equally worrisome. Was this what it felt like when one was about to swoon? Inconvenient to succumb to such feminine weakness for the first time, to be sur
e.

  She darted into an alcove. With an undignified whomp, she plumped onto the smallish settee within and bent forward, her head dangling between her knees. More hair escaped the simple knot she’d contrived before the small looking glass of her rented room, just larger than the kitchen larder at Elmswood.

  Breathing slowly and deeply, inhaling to a count of ten and then exhaling to another count of ten, she willed the faintness to pass.

  A couple of minutes later, she lifted her head a few inches and waited, her senses on tenterhooks.

  A bit better.

  At least the room ceased spinning like a child’s freshly wound top.

  Wouldn’t do to keel over, adding more fodder to the scandal that already blazed around her. She took a moment to rub her sore ankle. She’d twisted it earlier, aggravating an old break. Aunt Florencia said Bianca broke it as a toddler and the bone had failed to heal correctly. Bianca didn’t remember the injury, and except for an occasional ache, she forgot about her slightly turned out foot.

  Slipping from the nook, she wiped a shaky palm across her forehead and then turned the corner, discovering a set of stairs. Normally, her nerves were steady as a sea captain’s march across his pitching ship’s deck, but the ludicrousness below had befuddled her. One hand pressed to her middle, and the other clenching her skirts and fan, she sucked in a fortifying gulp of air as she dashed up the risers.

  God help her.

  Bertram had used her as collateral in a wager with an infamous rakehell. A man whose sullied reputation garnered a stern warning away from him her second day in London. A lord who now, at least on that vile slip of paper, might have become her guardian.

  “God help me,” she muttered aloud this time. Meet him afterward indeed. Was he a complete beef wit?

  According to several peeresses and prestigious dames, if he and the motley crew he kept company with didn’t hold titles, they’d never be accepted in polite company. Nevertheless, the younger set—specifically marriageable-age females—held those privileged banes of society in an entirely different light.

  Seems the ton looked the other direction when it came to peers of the realms’ indiscretions. A shortage of eligible, title-bearing men and a bevy of young damsels and their husband-hunting mothers, contributed to that forgiving attitude.

  Not so for pockets-to-let country misses whose only relative bartered her away like a hairy Highland cow. Even if Bianca was a descendent of James II.

  A wave of fury billowed over her, so potent her head spun again. She shut her eyes and clutched at the bannister until it passed.

  Another disturbing thought struck, and her eyes popped wide open.

  In all of Grand Uncle Sylvester’s library and study, she’d never come across anything, not even a family Bible, to prove the ancestral connection to James II. A long ago relative, eager to impress, might very well have made the tale up. And then the nonsense had been passed down generation after generation as factual.

  Thank God, thus far, no one had challenged the assertion.

  What the devil would she do if they did?

  That claim was the only respectable thing she possessed to use as leverage for gaining employment. Something she must find at once, no thanks to Bertram.

  Bertram.

  The worm. Maggot. Horse turd.

  So was the dratted Earl of Wainthorpe.

  In the card room, every muscle tense, she held her breath. Features arranged into blandness, she prayed over and over that Lord Wainthorpe possessed the smallest shred of decency somewhere in his tarnished soul. That the too attractive earl would rebuff Bertram’s preposterous proposal.

  But rather than muster an iota of honor, the devilishly handsome lord with his high cheekbones and strong chin coolly assessed her with those olive dark discs. Then had the gall to stipulate she must go with him if he won.

  Tonight.

  And Bertram agreed.

  In front of half of London.

  Wainthorpe was as rotten a cur as her cousin. His soul blacker than his shiny raven hair.

  So why did her silly pulse quicken each time he’d turned his unusual jet gaze on her? And why did she wish she wore a fine gown and jewels? Wanted her hair beautifully arranged in a fashion similar to the other women watching the game?

  Surely the earl realized accepting such a wager relegated her to the same status as demimondaine or a kept woman. She was not so naive as to think he meant to employ her as a housekeeper or secretary. Whoever heard of a female clerk or a housekeeper not beyond their fortieth summer?

  No, he knew full well what he was about, and yet without as much as a glint of remorse, he collaborated to ruin her. A stranger to him. What sort of unconscionable cur did that?

  Except, what about that guardianship provision?

  Might that make a difference?

  Make the awfulness slightly more acceptable? Respectable even?

  Probably not. The gossips wouldn’t care about that detail.

  Resuming her ascent, Bianca drew her brows together into a fierce frown. From the instant she first gazed upon Bertram last year, she’d sensed something off about him. Still, she strove to make the best of the situation.

  Because… Well, the truth of the matter was, she was the poor relation.

  Elmswood had been her home for a decade, since she was almost ten. After her mum died, she came to live with her childless Grand Uncle Sylvester and Grand Aunt Florencia. They were Mum’s only living relatives, and they’d also taken Mum in when her parents had died of cholera.

  Florencia had died over seven years ago, and Bianca now wore her remade gown. From her aunt’s old clothes and a pair of bed curtains, she’d fashioned a wardrobe, as well as saved money by stitching her own garments. Before coming to London, she’d been proud of her self-taught seamstress skills.

  Until she saw the gorgeous ensembles worn by the elite ladies of the ton, that is. Such lovely, delicate fabrics and lace. Such flattering colors and fits. All those brilliant ribbons, bows, sashes, and fallalls.

  Bianca glanced down and grimaced.

  She looked exactly like what she was.

  A frumpy country dowd come to town.

  Clothes were never a matter of concern before. But a small part of her, that feminine portion that cherished pretty, lacy things, longed for a gown half as exquisite as those she saw others parading about in. When the earl had taken her measure, his midnight brow twitching the tiniest bit as he took in her ensemble, humiliation had heated her cheeks.

  Nothing for it though. She would not cringe in chagrin or shame either. She couldn’t spare coin to purchase a new wardrobe in any event. Especially not now.

  Her meager savings wouldn’t last a month in London. Since no man showed any marked interest in paying his addresses, she must find a position, post haste. Her unpopular coloring, clothing far below the first sprig of fashion, and a lack of dowry played major roles. She wasn’t terribly surprised. Or terribly disappointed, for that matter.

  Till now, Bianca had been content at Elmswood Parke. Part of Aunt Florencia’s marriage settlement, she and Uncle Sylvester preferred the manor to his other two, entailed estates.

  These past few months, Bianca realized Bertram cared nothing about the place. Except for what he could extract from the estate monetarily. It wouldn’t be long until he brought them to destitution, and then he would sell the unentailed property.

  She felt sure of it.

  No amount of talking or reasoning made an impression on him. Hard-headed and stiff-necked, he dismissed her concerns. Almost always accompanied by threats to turn her onto the street if she didn’t mind her tongue and her own business.

  She hadn’t anywhere to go. So she stifled her comments and kept her fretting to herself until his next despicable act. In the meanwhile, she’d plotted how to ensure her future.

  By appealing to his vanity and warped sense of importance, Bianca had persuaded Bertram to allow her to accompany him to London for the Season. He hinted he sought a br
ide—a wealthy bride. If she were a little long in the tooth, he didn’t mind as long as her settlement portion proved substantial. He sincerely believed his title was all he needed to achieve that lofty goal.

  Bianca was honest enough to acknowledge there was some small truth to that, in fact.

  She’d convinced him that, with her by his side, he might ascend to le beau monde’s upper salons more readily, and therefore have access to more potential Lady Fairfaxes. Her pristine heritage did indeed open doors, not that she anticipated something as frivolous as a Come Out for herself.

  No, much more practical needs motivated her. But now, on her cousin’s whim, she had been gambled away. An expendable commodity.

  Surely Bertram and his lordship suspected she would refuse to cooperate. What did the earl think? She would meekly follow him to his carriage like one of his Cyprians?

  Oh, how she longed to box his ears, the dunderhead.

  I say, your lordship. My reputation is of no import. Do with me what you will.

  Bianca refused to acknowledge the little tingle of excitement the thought stirred. Lord Wainthorpe was a rapscallion. A knave of the worst sort

  Then why did her blood hum through her veins with something other than pure vexation?

  Murmurs about his pedigree abounded, too. Young ladies proved a tremendous source of fascinating information when they thought no one was listening nearby. She often sat in a corner or stood beside a festooned window, unnoticed and forgotten, and learned the most indecorous things.

  How the earl had been orphaned and came into his title at eight years old. How he never set foot in England until then and refused to speak English for the first six months. How he claimed royalty through his Indian heritage that surpassed a mere English earldom.

  His lineage had failed to mold him into a man of noble character, to be certain.

  Her stomach flopped sickeningly.

  Won by a wicked earl.

  She drew in a long, soothing breath and slowly released it through pursed lips.

  No sense getting into a complete dither. Yet.

  Wainthorpe mightn’t have won the game. Bertram might have prevailed, she reassured herself in an attempt to steady her hammering heart. The irregular cadence was surely caused by upset and high emotion rather than naughty ponderings on what the earl intended to do with her.